Score! rc-6

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Go away,’ sobbed Lucy. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Gee, I’m sorry to bother you, but you know about lurchers and some guy’s brought one in. I told him to come back tomorrow, but he seems desperate. I said you’d take the dog’s particulars and settle it in.’

  ‘We don’t want any more dogs,’ wept Lucy. ‘It’ll mean another one put down to make room for him.’

  Wiping her face on the counterpane, seizing a handful of tissues to blow her nose, mumbling that she simply wasn’t up to it, Lucy stumbled downstairs into the freezing cold night to discover it had been snowing. The dog pens on either side of the rough track leading up to the check-in office were empty of dogs but blanketed in snow. Snow lay on the roofs of the kennels behind, where she hoped the dogs were sleeping and wouldn’t wake up when she installed the lurcher. Newcomers were often traumatized by the din.

  Snow, already freezing on the wire fencing and the dogs’ nameplates on each pen, reminded her unaccountably of Valhalla. And then she saw him tiptoeing tentatively out of the office, a big grey shaggy dog, and her eyes were full of tears once more because in the moonlight he looked like the ghost of James. He was a little rickety on his legs, but as she drew nearer he suddenly noticed her, stiffened and his tail began sweeping back and forth, almost touching his ears as he broke into a lovely loping canter.

  He must be a ghost, he must! But as she ran forward, and he bounded towards her, swifter than eagles, she could see his dark paw prints stretching out behind him in the snow. Then he sank down on his ancient legs, squeaking and pirouetting four times in the moonlight, and, sneezing in excitement, he collapsed at her feet.

  Totally immobile for a few seconds, Lucy fell to her knees, hugging him, wailing as she felt the razor sharpness of his ribs and backbone, but all the time his tail beat frenziedly as his long tongue shot out to lick away the waterfall of tears.

  ‘Oh, James darling, how come you’re in America?’

  Wiping her eyes on his fur, Lucy raced up the snowy path in her bare feet with James bounding beside her.

  ‘It’s a miracle,’ she screamed, ‘someone’s brought in my James. Tell me I’m not dreaming.’

  Then she heard a voice, the most heartbreakingly husky voice in the world, saying indignantly, ‘No, I didn’t make myself clear. I want to keep the dog. It is your kennelmaid that I want to rehome.’

  ‘Tristan,’ croaked Lucy. ‘Oh, Tristan.’

  In the doorway to the waiting room her knees gave way, with James’s shaggy body the only thing propping her up. As Tristan came through the other door from the general office, she gave a gasp because snow was melting in his hair as it had been on the first day of filming, and because he was even thinner than James and, under the fluorescent lighting, looked greyer and more ghostly than James had in the moonlight.

  It must be a dream. Her eyes were so wet and her throat so dry, she couldn’t cry out, and neither, it seemed, could he. They just gazed at each other. The only sound was the brisk drumbeat of James’s tail against a metal filing cabinet.

  ‘Where did you find him?’ At last she stammered out the words.

  ‘In Edinburgh, outside my hotel. Some bastard use him to beg for money. He was so thin I didn’t recognize him. He was the clever one who recognized me.’

  As someone closed the door discreetly behind him, Lucy’s thanks came tumbling over each other. Wiping her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her nightie, she crouched down beside James, clinging to him, kissing him over and over, as he snaked against her in ecstasy.

  ‘I thought I’d never see him again.’ Her voice broke. ‘Oh, how did you find me?’

  ‘Gablecross finally admit you are here, or I would have arrived seven months earlier.’

  Lucy gazed down, thinking how tearstained and soppy and Pollyanna-ish she must look in her Peter Rabbit nightie with her yellow hair in bunches. But Tristan was only aware of her sweet, trembling mouth and the way her cheekbones shone like mother-of-pearl as the tears slid over them. Then, suddenly roused from shock, he noticed her bare feet and how little she was wearing.

  ‘You mustn’t catch cold.’ Whipping off his coat, he wrapped it round her. Breathing in the tang of Eau Sauvage on the dark blue collar, fighting the temptation to fall into his arms, Lucy collapsed instead on to a leather sofa.

  ‘I didn’t wake you?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘No, I was watching the Academias. Lily in the Valley won everything. You got Best Director.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘You don’t sound very excited. It’s a huge honour.’

  ‘Other things matter more.’

  ‘How’s Don Carlos?’ Anyone would think she was at one of Helen’s drinks parties.

  ‘People seem to like it. Everyone loves your make-up, and have bet you get Oscar.’

  Soothed by Lucy’s stroking, James had collapsed on the floor, but kept one eye open — after all, his future was at stake. All round the walls hung photographs of beautiful, happy, rehomed dogs, cheek to cheek with adoring but often extremely plain owners. Maybe, thought Lucy hopefully through a haze of white wine, one didn’t need to be beautiful to be loved. Then she made the mistake of asking how Tab was.

  ‘Blissful,’ said Tristan happily. ‘Rupert’s revving up for a massive wedding at Penscombe in April.’

  How lunatic she’d been to hope. Smoothing the feathers on James’s legs, Lucy felt the tears starting again.

  ‘That’s great.’ Desperately she tried to keep the conversation light. ‘I can be godmother to your first child.’

  ‘I’d much rather you were its mother,’ muttered Tristan.

  But Lucy wasn’t concentrating, only noticing that he seemed to be edging across the room towards her, like James trying to get on to her mother’s double bed when they stayed in Cumbria.

  ‘Lucy darling, please stop crying,’ begged Tristan, ‘I can’t bear it. Listen to me. Hortense die last week.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m so sorry.’ Lucy looked up in horror. ‘She was such a darling.’

  ‘She love you too, and eef you hadn’t sought her out, I would never have known I was Laurent’s son. That parcel was most wonderful present I ever have. I can never thank you too much.’

  ‘But it’s me who should thank you. You saved my life, you brought James back. We’ll have to settle abroad,’ said Lucy, in a worried voice. ‘He’d never cope with quarantine, nor would I.’

  Tristan was so close now, she could again breathe in the familiar heady cocktail of Eau Sauvage, peppermint chewing-gum and Gauloise, and her heart started to hammer as his knees brushed against hers.

  ‘James and I had long conversation on the plane coming over.’

  Was she imagining it or had his hand just stroked her hair?

  ‘James detest crate I have to put him into,’ continued Tristan. ‘He didn’t believe I was taking him to you. He was so depressed and nervous I had to sit in the hold and hold his paw. It was very uncomfortable for both of us. There were two parrots with us, who both learn to say “I love Lucy” by end of flight.’

  Still unable to take in what he was saying, Lucy gave a shaky laugh.

  ‘James want to live in France,’ insisted Tristan.

  ‘We don’t know anyone in France,’ said Lucy, in a choked voice.

  ‘You know me.’ Crouching down beside her, Tristan put one hand over her mouth, ‘Tais-toi, my darling, for just one second. Since you go away nothing in my life has been so dreadful. I suffer over Claudine, but nothing to the purgatory of life without you. Those months of filming, you bring such sunshine into my life.’

  With the other hand he was now stroking her forehead, fingering her feathery eyelashes, wiping away a fresh supply of tears, running his finger down her nose in wonder. ‘You are really real,’ he whispered. ‘I have nightmares every night that you are dead.’

  ‘Oh, so do I,’ breathed Lucy, appalled to find she couldn’t stop kissing his fingers.

  ‘Hush, I talk. First, I kid myself you are sweet little
sister I never had. When you take care of me after Rannaldini tell me about Maxim, I kid myself you are mother I never had. But then you come back from France looking so beautiful in that pink dress, and I sack you because I am so white-hot jealous you’re having affaire with Wolfie, I suddenly realize you are true grand passion I never have. When you nearly died, I died with worry, but when you went away, I died worser.’ Tristan removed his hand from her mouth and waited. ‘Lucy, Lucy. Please look at me and say something.’

  But she was so stunned by the wonder of his words, she could only stare down and ask herself how the hell Peter Rabbit could stuff his face with carrot at a time like this.

  Tristan picked up one of her bunches. ‘You look so sexy with blonde hair.’ Then a horrible possibility dawned on him. ‘There is not someone else?’

  ‘Someone else?’ squeaked Lucy incredulously. ‘Of course not. I’ve never loved anyone but you since that moment I saw you with snow in your hair. The Prince with the heavy heart.’ Then she remembered the occasion and cried out despairingly, ‘But what about Tab and the wedding?’

  ‘What’s she got to do with it?’ asked Tristan in amazement. ‘Tab’s marrying Wolfie. Oh, my God, did you think it was still Tab and me? Oh, my poor angel.’ Kneeling up, he pulled her against him, feeling the frantic pounding of her heart, as she in turn felt the exquisite pain of being crushed against the hardness of his big gold blazer buttons.

  ‘That’s wonderful for Wolfie,’ gasped Lucy, ‘but weren’t you heartbroken?’

  ‘Not in the least. They will have pretty blond babies.’

  ‘And Wolfie’ll look after her so well, he adores her so much.’

  ‘Not as much as I shall adore and look after you.’ For a second Tristan sounded almost beady. ‘And you and I will have lots of babies with dark curly hair, who will be even prettier. I know how you love kids.’ He picked up Lucy’s hand and kissed each finger. ‘As Maxim’s son, I couldn’t give them to you so I back off. By the time I open parcel and learnt the truth you had gone. Why did you run away? It broke my heart.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear the pain.’ Tentatively Lucy’s hand crept up to the dark stubble along his jaw. ‘I thought you were in love with Claudine or, at least, Tab — that’s stiff competition — and Rozzy…’ Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.

  ‘Rozzy what?’ demanded Tristan, forcing her face upwards.

  ‘She, well, she said I was too plain, ugly and common, and your family would be furious. Ouch!’ Lucy screamed, as Tristan’s hand clenched on her chin, then gasped in alarm because his eyes had become black whirlpools of hatred.

  ‘Eef that evil monster weren’t in security prison,’ he spat, ‘I break in and tear her to pieces. How dare the beetch! You have sweetest face in the world. And my family will love you. Whether you will love them is different matter. My brothers are very pompous. And it’s me they are furious with at the moment because Aunt Hortense leave me so much money, and’, Tristan smiled suddenly, ‘they don’t quite know how to handle Griselda. I adore your face.’ Very gently he covered it in kisses. ‘And now it will grow as familiar as the paintings on my bedroom wall.’

  But Lucy wasn’t ready for certainty. ‘What about Claudine? I read the Mail.’

  Tristan scrambled to his feet, pulling Lucy up against him. Despite his thinness, his chest was still broad, and his arms incredibly strong as they closed round her.

  ‘I should have level with you,’ he muttered, ‘my love for her die, the night Rannaldini die. I drive to Wales and find I am chasing dream.’

  ‘Did you see her in Edinburgh?’

  ‘No, I run away. I call her from airport. She was furious. “Are you sick?” she shout. “No,” I say, “I am seeking.”’

  Running his hands deep into Lucy’s hair, he gazed down at her. ‘You have no need of Oscar’s lighting.’

  Then, breathing in faint traces of Bluebell, he knew spring had at last returned. As he kissed her Lucy could feel his wonderful big bruised lower lip crushing hers, and his tongue caressing her tongue. Just for a second her eyes flickered open and saw that his were closed in ecstasy, the thick dark brown lashes fanning his beautiful cheekbones. As she swivelled her head sideways so he could kiss her even harder, she felt as though she was being drawn up to heaven like one of Chagall’s angels. And what her head still couldn’t quite take in, her heart accepted completely, that he truly loved her.

  As they broke for breath, she flung her arms round his neck. ‘You are the most blissfully gorgeous man who ever walked this earth, and I’m going to love, cherish and adore you for ever.’

  ‘If you don’t, I shall be horribly jealous,’ said Tristan. ‘Even of Pierre Lapin.’ He fingered Peter Rabbit. ‘Look at lucky him, lying against those wonderful breasts.’

  ‘How d’you know they’re wonderful?’ mumbled a blushing Lucy.

  ‘I have Hype-along’s picture in my wallet. I show it you later. But first you must have this.’

  Reaching down to his coat which had fallen on the floor, he took a little black velvet box from the inside pocket. ‘Aunt Hortense leave me ring, which once belong to Marie Antoinette. You give me back my name, Lucy, now I want you to share it with me.’

  Lucy’s hands were trembling so violently, Tristan had to open the box. Inside, like mistletoe berries waiting for kissing lovers, gleamed three pearls.

  As a tear splashed on one of them, Tristan said shakily, ‘I would be safest, happiest guy in world, if you would wear it always.’

  They were brought back to earth by a great snore rending the air. With his future assured, James felt safe to fall asleep.

  EPILOGUE

  The police had finally allowed Rannaldini to be buried in huge pomp. Unwilling to attend the funeral, Tristan came alone to Valhalla to pay his last respects. It was a bitterly cold, dark afternoon: the east wind howled and lashed the naked trees. A ‘For Sale’ sign swung dismally outside the main gates.

  Tristan went straight to the graveyard. Here, amid a sea of flowers and higgledy-piggledy ivy-clad graves, soared a splendid white marble headstone, on which had already been inscribed the words: ‘Roberto Rannaldini, Maestro and Composer, 1949–1996.’

  As he stood in the fading light, Tristan relived the past year, remembering Baby serenading Hermione in the snow, Tabitha screaming at the hunt, Granny silencing the rabble with such terrifying authority, Alpheus singing with such kingly anguish, and Mikhail as he lay dying reducing everyone to tears.

  Tristan thought of Simone, Wolfie and Bernard working themselves to the bone, of Valentin and Oscar creating radiance even when they seemed at their most languid and inattentive, of dearest Lucy, always comforting and smiling, of Sexton giving him full rein and heroically raising the money, and the rest of the crew backing him all the way despite their grumbling.

  But without Rannaldini it would never have happened. Without Rannaldini’s kindness and continual encouragement in the early days he would never have emerged from the shadow of Étienne’s disdain and become a director. And what would Rannaldini, who had never settled for less than perfection, think of his film, which was now in a little black oblong box for present and future generations to judge?

  More important than winning any Oscars, Tristan hoped that, whatever form or being he was now, Rannaldini would be proud.

  Strange that one narrow grave could contain so much vitality, strange that so much tragedy and passion should be contained in one small, black videotape, which Tristan now laid on Rannaldini’s grave. On top he placed a white gardenia.

  But as he stood in silence, he could have sworn a pale violet light, like a torch beam or a peacock butterfly left over from summer, landed on the grave, and danced for a second before disappearing into the earth. He shook his head. It must have been a trick of the light.

  Leaving the graveyard, he wandered past Meredith’s cuckoo clock lying upside down in the park. The patch of yellow grass beneath Lucy’s caravan was green once more, the love-in-a-mist in her abandoned windo
w-box turned to seed pods. Tristan put a couple in his pocket.

  Looking over the valley with the ghosts of the past swirling around him, he was overwhelmed by sorrow that Don Carlos was over and Rannaldini gone for ever. But as he walked swiftly back to the car park he felt only joy as he switched on his telephone and dialled his future:

  ‘May I speak to Lucy de Montigny, please?’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  In 1985 Robin Baird-Smith, then of Constable the publisher, sent me to Death Valley to write a short book about Patrick Lichfield photographing three ravishing nude models for the 1986 Unipart calendar. As well as Patrick’s crew, there was a second film crew videoing the shoot for television. Everyone was obsessed with their own agenda. With temperatures hitting 140°F, the rows were as pyrotechnic as the high jinks. Returning home a wreck, but eternally grateful to everyone involved for such riotous fun, I vowed one day to write a novel about a film crew on location.

  The result, fourteen years later, is Score!: the subject no longer a calendar shoot but the filming of Verdi’s darkest opera, Don Carlos, with the resultant tensions leading to murder. Only when I had embarked on the story did I realize that in addition to filming and recording I would need to research opera and the ways of singers as well as the infinitely complicated police procedure of solving a murder. This consequently means a huge number of people to thank for their help. Singers, and those who work with them, seem to have particularly large and generous hearts.

  On the filming front, I must start by thanking my dear friend Adrian Rowbotham, an independent director, who not only talked to me for hours, but later nobly ploughed through the manuscript for errors. I am also eternally grateful to the charismatic Peter Maniura of BBC Television, who was brilliant on directing the film of Dido and Aeneas, and the ebullient Mick Csaky of Antelope Films, who rolled up to lunch with a complete and marvellously funny brief on how to fund the film of an opera. Mick also introduced me to the divine soprano Susan Daniel, who over many meetings shared her singing experiences, particularly of starring in the film of Carmen with Placido Domingo.